Walking On Glass
by TheCookieWhore
Summary: Moving to Forks wasn't Charley Luganov's idea of fun, especially because her stepmom has friends there. But as she begins to adjust more and more to the people there, she realises that not everything is as straight forward as she's enjoyed thinking for the past 17 years. OC/Embry Call


**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any concepts involved within this fanfic, they are all property of Stephenie Meyer-not me. I am neither making any profit by writing this fanfic (shame!) and I never will. I only own any OCs involved within this fanfic or any original ideas you might see featured. Thank you.**

**A/N: So, boys and girls, here we are again! I will unfortunately pre-tell you that either this or Traditional Vampires will not be updated as quickly as the other, but I will be slower these days. I have a lot more work on regarding school and I've got several essays I'm currently writing, so I must apologize to you guys beforehand I get this show on the road. Life's just been throwing so much at me recently I'm afraid I'm going to be incredibly unreliable sorry so you can all hate me regardless, but blame school, not me please! I don't **_**ask**_** for more work and essays, they're simply dished out regardless of what I like. This is also my first OC/Canon pairing, so please don't hate me profusely for fucking every character up, I am going to be trying my best ladies and germs, I promise you that! Oh well, no canon people are in this chapter, so you're not going to hate me just yet. Hope you enjoy ;)**

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Wind whistling through the graveyard made the black, dark blue or even dark red, material which constructed all the dresses, skirts or loose shirts billow in the wind; making an assortment of technicolor butterflies, attached to the seams of outfits, cast into the icy blue coloured air, and a true sign of early December. The vicar's droning voice was failing to captivate me, and I wished my dad would've assigned a, not per say entertaining, but maybe semi-captivating; vicar for my Nan's funeral service. I thought the funeral of your own mother would mean something more to anyone, but we'd been scrapped for cash recently, and the money Nan left us from her will would only be coming through after the service was over. I doubted I'd be accompanying Oscar, my dad, and Rosie, my stepmother, to our family lawyer, Mr Kaufman's, firm but I at that point in time I figured anything might be happening.

Dad was looking down at the grave, his eyes glazed over like he wanted to cry but he was furiously refusing to allow any tears to be shed; dad and Nan often fought before her death, and crying might make people think he was guilty for all the arguments which went on between them. They hadn't even been on the best of terms when the throat cancer she'd had for about two years, caused by too much smoking, finally took her life, but they'd at least been on speaking terms by that point in time. It was my stepmother who was the cause of all their unnecessary fighting, although it wasn't really her fault. My Nan, Patsy Cook, never believed you should remarry, especially if your wife died like my mom did, so when dad met, dated, got engaged to, then married Rosa 'Rosie' England, she'd almost disowned him just on the spot.

Neither of my uncles-Joey or Carter-would've dared remarry, even after my Uncle Joey and Aunt Loretta got divorced, he didn't dare go out looking for dates, knowing Nan would hit the roof. Dad had been incredibly brave remarrying my stepmom, and amazingly she'd come to terms with it over a course of four years of bitter, brutal, borderline violent arguing-not to mention not seeing her at birthday's or Christmases-she'd eventually gotten over it. My biological mom, Eloise, died in a car accident when I was six years old, and my brother, Danny, was two. It was an accident, no-one had wanted her dead or anything-my mom was a dentist for Christ's sake, you can't make too many enemies as a dentist-but she'd been driving back home from organizing work files on night and a drunk driver, Walter McKinnon, had smashed his car into her's after falling asleep at the wheel. After a court battle spanning several months, he'd been given four years in a state prison.

Many people, including my family of course-especially dad and my maternal relatives-, partitioned for him to get a longer sentence because he'd already had convictions for drunk and disorderly behaviour, however it went nowhere, and he was released from prison when I was ten. He hadn't known Eloise Cook had two young children when he killed her, and I doubt he ever will.

"Charley?" A pubescent yet still unbroken voice called, snapping me out of my somewhat oblivious daze and I turned to my left, staring at my thirteen year old brother with a slightly blurred vision. Funerals often have some point where I blank out and retreat to thoughts of my mother, wondering about what my life would be like if she were still here; don't get me wrong, Rosie's lovely and all, and she treats me like her own child, not just her husband's daughter, but she could never be passed as my mother because I took after my own way too much.

My stepmom, Rosie Cook, stands at 5'8", about two inches smaller than my father at 5'10; her skin is slightly russet in colour, because her father was Native American, but has paler undertones because her mother's apparently pale as a snowflake; I've never met my, for lack of better word, step grandparents, because they live in Germany where Rosie spent her teenage years, but I've seen photos and I must agree. Her hair's a pitch black colour, such a dark shade it has purplish undertones to it, waving slightly at the ends and comes down to her waist, because she only stopped cutting it when it reached that length. Her eyes, in a deep contrast, are a clear, sparkling husky blue like her mother's. Her build is slightly plum around the edges, but pleasantly so, and it suits her. She looks like a typical housewife and it surprisingly fits her job as a real estate seller, because she looks incredibly professional whilst working. Her face has a couple of lines on it from too much looking seriously, and is striking-too sharply edged to be pretty or cute-but attractive none the less.

Oddly enough, I came out paler than my dad and brother, as well; our mom, Eloise, was Russian born surprisingly, with her maiden name being Luganov, but she was raised in England. I spent the first four years of my life in England, before we moved to America when my brother was born to be closer to my dad's family after both my mom's elderly parents passed away. When I was thirteen I convinced my dad to allow me to change my last name to Luganov, in honour of her, and because Rosie didn't mind-something which amazed me-I did. My name, Charlotta, is Russian so it fits, but I was nicknamed Charley when I was a little girl and it stuck. I've been told I look Russian by some people, but I don't get it. I'm relatively small, 5'2" (apparently that isn't small), with a slender, slightly flat chested figure, but I don't mind. I've got a relatively young face-snub nose, rounded cheeks, heart shaped lips-and I'm described as attractive by most people-a relief. To top off the mix, I've got light brown hair with blonde highlights, and light grey-green eyes. The eyes are from dad's side, the hair's from mom's.

Danny, my brother, is pretty much the same as me. Small, slender, young faced-snub nose, rounded cheeks, heart shaped lips just like me-yet in an apparently attractive sense, only he got dad's dirty blonde borderlining brown hair, the colour of sand and mom's storm sky blue eyes. It's slightly depressing my little brother, aged just thirteen, has had two girlfriends compared to my incredibly pathetic no boyfriends; I never really got to know Alice or Michaela, his former girlfriend's, but I still envied him for getting lots of attention. My little brother stayed as a 'Cook', but I overheard a conversation between dad and Rosie which mentioned he'd told dad he considered changing his surname to Luganov like I had, which I strangely understood. He barely remember mom, which he openly admitted to me on more than one occasion; so by taking her surname, he probably would feel closer to her spiritually. I supposed it was a backlash of breaking up with Michaela had made him reconsider such things; Nan had left dad her impressive house on the outskirts of Forks, Washington, and dad had jumped at the chance to own a bigger, more spacious house, especially in such a quiet, peaceful town compared to the southern madhouse I'd grown up in full of violence and crime.

The midnight coloured fabric of my dress, which I'd specifically bought for the funeral, flapped in the wind like Rosie's skirt, or my Aunt Trish's navy blue dress, did. Unfortunately, I'd ended up zoning out again, and Danny was forced to shake my shoulder so I finally turned to him. He looked strangely serious with his flat combed hair, black suit and light blue shirt, standing with a slight slouch to his shoulders, glancing uncertainly at the ground. "Charley?" He repeated in whisper, and I nodded, instead of speaking because I knew I'd be far too loud. "Do you want to move?" His voice was uncertain and I gulped, knowing I'd have to speak now.

"Not really…" My voice came out so quiet it was barely audible, but it was the only way I could successfully whisper. "But…We get a bigger house and go to better schools so…Maybe it's for the best." I shrugged, staring into the mass of deep velvet green trees dotted around the church graveyard where Nan's funeral was taking place. There wasn't really much for me back in Redfort, Louisiana; I'd not had many friends who really liked me, my grades were good (a mix of B's and A's) but I wasn't one of the outstanding students, and there was always that horrible feeling whenever I had to drive my car late at night, especially if were alone and I knew it was either a Friday, Saturday or during a holiday, when people had been drinking and car accidents were more common. Maybe Forks was the change me and dad needed, with Danny simply adapting.

For someone incapable of really whispering without having to be borderline silent, I was a competent eavesdropper; Rosie apparently had a friend from childhood who lived there, so she was looking forwards to moving according to what I'd overheard. Her dad, being Native American, had lived on a reservation before she was born, and was part of the Makah tribe, being friends with a member named Justin Call, who'd gone on to have to have several daughters, one named Tiffany. Before she'd moved to Germany, Rosie had been part of the tribe too, becoming incredibly close with Tiffany to the point they were best friends. Apparently they'd become more and more distant after Rosie moved to Germany, with Tiffany moving to another reservation, La Push, when she became pregnant with her son. The only reason this apparently had relevance to the conversation topic of moving was because, of course, Forks was about a fifteen minute drive away from La Push, so naturally, Rosie was ecstatic.

I couldn't blame Rosie for being pleased. If I had a best friend who I hadn't seen for about twenty years, then suddenly I was moving fifteen minutes away, into a nice house just to add to the package; I'd be incredibly happy too, so I could understand why she was so pleased. Dad was happy because he'd finally get away from the place where mom died; I was happy because I'd get a fresh start regarding making friends; and Danny would soon find out something, like we had a pool or something, so he'd let go of any worries soon enough. My little brother's always adapted quickly to new places, so it naturally made sense that he'd settle in quicker than I would have if I did have lots of great friends back in my original home.

Something told me that Rosie would drag me out for visits to Tiffany's house, and I'd have to spend time with her yet unnamed son; she might drag out Danny with us, but I'd always been the more likely candidate, being the female sibling. Maybe I'm expected to bond better with Tiffany Call's son because although I don't know his name, I've been told he's my age; being a good four years younger than someone, even if you are the same gender as them, it makes the relationship much more complicated than necessary. Besides, I doubt we'll really become close or even borderline that, simply because I'm so painstakingly boring; the most interesting fact and common ground I've ever had with anyone is that I've been doing ballet since I was four years old. Ballet's the only thing I've ever been really confident about regarding my skills. Sure, I get good grades and all, but I've never been one of those staff-named 'gifted and talented' people, so I don't stick out by any means. Even at ballet, it was hard making friends, although a lot of people understand that for obvious reasons.

Ballerinas' are some of the most competitive sportsmen and women to walk, or should that be pirouette, the face of the earth. The whole ballet world is incredibly competitive; it's all who gets the main roles in the performances, and who has the best makeup and costumes when they put on the shows, and who the teacher favours the most. Whenever you receive a complement, there's always a 'but you could improve' two seconds later. Most of the girls in my beginners' class had quit by the time we reached the age of about nine; it was the fact we were given pointe shoes which put most of the girls in my class, because they simply couldn't handle the original pain of putting all their weight into their feet. Me on the other hand-I soldiered through because I felt incredibly confident whilst facing the challenge of dancing pressures put on me; when I was eleven, I decided that attending the School of American Ballet, located in New York, was my ideal prospect for a career, and that's been my goal since then.

Originally I was slightly worried about moving, in case Forks didn't provide a good, or at least _a_, ballet studio, and to my disappointment, I'd been informed by Rosie there wasn't one; at that moment the brief thought of refusing to leave crossed my mind, anger shooting throughout my entire body in the anguish of knowing the only dream I'd ever been able to imagine was being crushed…That was until Rosie informed me that Port Angeles, a larger town directly on the coast, had a small ballet studio which extended up to the age of nineteen, meaning I could continue my dancing. That was the proposition which sold me on not minding moving to Washington. From personal knowledge, the smaller the ballet studio, the less bitchy and backstabbing the students turn out to be, and I had a feeling I was actually going to prefer _Bellamy's Dancing Studio_, much more than that of Redfort's School of Dance. I'd apparently been one of the best in the 16-18 class, but that didn't stop me from receiving the usual snide, bitter looks from others. I wasn't the only one to be fair, everyone exchanged those looks most lessons, as stupid and pathetic as it sounds; eventually, you just grew up and got used to it, the ballet world is a lot more vicious than so many like to think.

* * *

Driving through the wooded area of Forks reminded me of being in some desolate horror film, and I was only relieved because Danny was sitting in the passenger seat next to me. As the trees zoomed by, all blurring into one large collage of different green shades, I couldn't help but think of Rob Zombie's critically known _House of 1000 Corpses_. I wasn't really old enough to watch it when it came out, but that didn't stop my cousin Karl from renting it, despite being just sixteen himself; Karl got the tall gene on the other hand, and he's always looked older than most people would realise, so he was naturally able to lie to the attractive, young _female_ desk clerk. Part of me was waiting for Captain Spalding's Museum of Monsters and Madmen to pop up on the roadside, but to my relief it didn't; I've never been a big fan of clowns anyway, and Danny's scared senseless of them. Ruggsville is totally fictional, thank god, but it doesn't stop my imagination, the little I possess, from being worried that the infamous side attraction owned by a psycho clown suddenly appearing on the side of the road like a ghost house.

I'm not a massive horror fan, I've never had the stomach for all that blood and mindless violence, but my cousins, especially Karl and Ruben, have been freaks since they were about nine and often enjoy dragging me along with them; I guess they needed a girl with them so they didn't look like two lonely guys watching lots of horror alone. Karl's, unfortunate I might add, girlfriend Bailey flat out refused, whilst Ruben's girlfriend Gloria had a habit of being conveniently 'ill' every time they wanted to see one; to be fair, she got ill a lot, but I think even he guessed she just didn't want to watch anymore horror. Now, with me having moved to the north, things would naturally be five thousand times more difficult for my cousins to drag me out to watch another horror flick, but they'd find a way, with a mind like Karl's, they always did.

Part of me was, and I must add cruelly, smug that Danny was soon going to be of legal age to get into at least fifteens, and I partially hoped he'd become the next unfortunate person to be dragged into Karl and Ruben's horror organization. I didn't know how Danny would feel about horror films, seeing as he was forced to sleep with the light on til he was twelve, but part of me hoped he'd fair better in the world of cheap, blood spurting filmography. He kept nervously glancing into the back of our car, our incredibly worn out 1999 Audi A4-the silver paint was beginning to fade, the seats, although comfy, were even more tired than the outer layer of paint, and dad was forced to take it to the garage for a check-up every two months. Him and Rosie had borrowed my black 2004 Audi Convertible Consumer, a birthday present from my maternal grandparents when I turned sixteen on the 11th of October, 2006; because I figured a black, shiny(ish) convertible looked a lot better than our rusting family automobile. I was still surprised they'd put the final couple of boxes, mainly containing my ballet outfits and trophies, as well as my hockey equipment, as well as Danny's basketball trophies and kits in; especially in this crumbling old dinosaur of a car. But I figured that served us right for taking that trip to the mountains in it back when I was twelve and it'd taken a battering; dad thought that was better than renting himself a land rover or jeep of some form, and I couldn't blame him, back then we were pretty strapped for cash because dad was transferring jobs, but things had gotten better.

"Do you even know where the new house is?" Danny asked, and I turned to look at him, slightly unsure of my answer.

"I think so…" I managed to shrug. "I mean…I'm just following the removal van," I gestured towards the large, blue van with white markings which was rolling onwards ahead of us. "The movers obviously know where our new house is, so if I follow them, I'll be fine."

"I heard Rosie commenting on how her old best friend's son keeps apparently disobeying whatever she tells him," Danny sniggered, eager to let me know he could successfully eavesdrop too. "I wonder what he's like; apparently his name's _Embry_, who calls their son that?"

"Embry?" I asked, briefly turning to face him, but I quickly turned my eyes back to the road when a flash of panic hit me. "Isn't that the name of that guy who starred in some soap opera Rosie used to love?" It was my brother's turn to shrug now as the two of us stared absentmindedly out onto the woodland stretch of road which hurtled out in front of us. "It just sounded familiar…" I managed to mutter before Danny piped up again, as I sped the car up from 30 to 40, although part of me didn't want to. I simply had to keep up with the movers, and they'd sped up, so I was forced to as well.

"I swear…" He was cut off by a stifled giggle, which I desperately tried my best to ignore. "That Rosie wants you and him to get married or something stupid like that! So she and Tiffany can like be…Sister's in law or something like that!" He couldn't choke back the laughter now and I simply rolled my eyes, glowering out back onto the road. I've never liked it when Rosie tried to set me up on dates with the sons of her friends-in fact, apart from her possible cleaning OCD, especially whenever she rearranges my room for me; it's the only real thing about her which gets under my skin. Her friends son's often turn out to be some of the most irritating, boring idiots I've ever met-and they have no appreciation for ballet. As snobbish as that may sound, most of them don't even really know the basics, and act like I'm supposed to give them an automatic display of my abilities the second I mention it, which really annoys me. Besides, it's the assumption that I'm going to automatically like them because Rosie's friends are nice: that is never the case. Rosie's friends seem to have produced some of the most annoying son's in the world, and it never ends well for either of us.

They're always too brash, too bold, and too headstrong for me; I'm always too quiet, too awkward and too mousy for them. So, as you've probably guessed, I wasn't pleased at Danny's comment. "Yes well," I cleared my throat tightly and glowered slightly at him, my eyes becoming hooded like a cobras when it's planning to strike. "Let's hope none of Tiffany's friends have daughters' or you'll be in for some fun, won't you!"

"Shut up!" Danny growled and we resumed the comfortable silence we'd previously been in. As childish as I felt later, it made me smug knowing that I'd bested Danny in our argument, and I'd forced him to shut his trap. Like all siblings we argue, but dating is a particularly common field, probably because he's done so much of it whilst I've done so little; it wouldn't sting nearly half as much if _he_ were the elder sibling, but _I_ am, so I'm not just angered but also incredibly ashamed whenever he brings the subject up. It's embarrassing, not to mention debilitating, when your brother, whose your junior by four years, can successfully attract people better than you can. It didn't help that the sudden drop in temperature had forced me to button up my coat so tightly it had practically become its own form of corset. "Why don't you just take a de-tour to La Push?" Danny suddenly added, almost making me jump with the sudden exclamation, and I looked at him like he was insane.

"I don't even know the directions…"

"There's sign posts!" Danny insisted and I bit my lip, unsure of what to do. Sure, it'd be fun to venture down to La Push (if I could actually _find_ the place), and I love the beach; but I'd not be able to talk to anyone and I'd just come across awkward and touristy. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I considered my options, running them through in my head, trying to ignore Danny's nagging. "Please Charley! It'll only take a while to drive there, and I promise we'll only stay there for ten minutes! No more than ten minutes, I promise! Honestly I promise!"

"We're supposed to be going to the house to get the keys…" I mumbled, keeping my eyes firmly on the road, trying to ignore that childish side of me, urging to go to the beach.

"The removal men can wait!" Danny insisted, shaking my wrist excitedly. "Please Charley?"

"Hand off the wrist!" I practically screamed, all my car crash sensory panic taking over and lurching my mind into an automatic panic. My road safety skills would've made a driving instructor blush they were so perfectionised and practiced; I'd never dare go over the speed limit, always drove in the right lane, and even if I'd had so much as a _sip _of alcohol I'd ask someone else to drive for me, or walk home and pick up my car in the morning. Realising my brother would continuously nag me about driving down to La Push by distracting me; preferably grabbing at my hands or wrists the best he could to get my attention or just distracting me from the state of the road. It'd be much safer driving down to the beach than attempting to go to our new home with my idiotic little brother trying to murder us both in the process. "Fine." He grinned like an excited puppy. "We go to La Push. Happy now?"

"Very!" He smirked, knowing he'd gotten his own way. Smug little shit. Sometimes I found it hard to 'love' my annoying little brother, although I tried my best. Sighing slightly, I looked outwards onto the sides of the highway where the signposts marking the way to First Beach, La Push; I hoped the removal men weren't going to be too annoyed we'd taken a detour but they'd seemed pleasant enough men when I'd talked to them before they'd set off from the funeral. They weren't too old, only in their late thirties and early forties; but they weren't too young either so I'd end up blushing or giggling like I had with one who'd moved our belongings out of our house. He was only nineteen, incredibly good looking, and helping out his dad with the moving; his dad was helping put our belongings into the new home but he wasn't –maybe I'd been distracting him? That made me smile. _Idiot!_ I told myself. _Who'd ever like you enough to be distracted?_


End file.
